xoJanehttp://www.xojane.com/
enCopyright 2015 Say Media, Inc.http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rssTue, 03 Mar 2015 10:54:49 -0800A Famous Dermatologist's Why-Didn't-I-Think-of-That Skin-Care Advice For Gym-Goers<!-- tml-version="2" --><p>One of the many perks of being a beauty writer is that it’s not at all weird for me to aggressively ask a famous dermatologist for beauty advice for free. One of the downsides is that their answers usually don’t surprise me. Drink water, eat healthy,<em> blah blah blah</em>. So you can imagine what a shock to the system it was when I tried to solicit advice from <a href="http://www.dennisgrossmd.com/">Dr. Dennis Gross</a> and his answers were actually informative and eye-opening.&nbsp;</p><p>I walked up to the good doctor and asked him to tell me what I should do with my skin. It's sort of egotistical of me to think a man that doesn’t know me would dispense this advice, but an awesome dialogue ensued. (Dr. Gross is really passionate about what he does, which explains why <a href="https://www.dgskincare.com/index.cfm">his products</a> are so good.) &nbsp;Shortly into the conversation, I started talking about some breakouts I’d been having that I thought were related to working out, and what I got back from DDG was pure gold.&nbsp;</p><p>After telling me what I can do now (use the <a href="https://www.dgskincare.com/productdetails.cfm?SKU=BA526910">Clarifying Colloidal Sulfur Mask</a> to clear up my pimples) and later (use <a href="https://www.dgskincare.com/productdetails.cfm?SKU=BA520510">Alpha Beta Peel</a> to even out my skin tone), he gave me sage advice to share with anybody who works out. &nbsp;It went like this:</p><p><strong>Dr. Dennis Gross:</strong> “Beware of wiping your face with industrial towels.”</p><p><strong>Me:</strong> “Huh?” (Guys, I’m super eloquent).&nbsp;</p><p><strong>DDG:</strong> “Bring your own towel to the gym.&nbsp;These industrial detergents and bleaches are all about strong, antiseptic cleaning. If they don’t rinse them thoroughly, there could be residue of detergent left on that towel. And then if you put it to your face when you’re sweating, you essentially have liberated it, and now you have detergent and bleach on your skin.”</p><p><strong>Me:</strong> (I can barely speak because my mind is now blown.) “This makes sense, but I never would’ve thought of that in a million years.”</p><p><strong>DDG:</strong> “Welcome to my world. Especially if you have sensitive skin, make sure to bring your own towel.”</p><p><strong>Me:</strong> (Remembering that I’m supposed to be interviewing this man) “Do you have any other post-gym tips for people with sensitive skin?”</p><p><strong>DDG:</strong> “Of course <em>always</em> work out with your makeup off. Also, if you’ve worked out and your skin is overheated, it may not be the time to use an alcohol-based toner. That’s just going to make your skin even more red, and you can risk breaking blood vessels. Avoid that for at least an hour afterwards.”</p><p><strong>Me:</strong> “Are there any products that you would recommend using after the gym?”</p><p><strong>DDG:</strong> “Something to replenish your skin’s natural moisture barrier, since you’ve depleted it of nutrients. The <a href="https://www.dgskincare.com/productdetails.cfm?SKU=BA533610">Triple C Peptide Firming Oil</a> is good for that.”</p><div tml-image="ci01c889c8b001efe2" tml-image-caption="Triple C Peptide Firming Oil, $62 at &lt;a href=&quot;https://www.dgskincare.com/productdetails.cfm?SKU=BA533610&quot;&gt;dgskincare.com&lt;/a&gt;" tml-render-layout="left"><figure><img src="http://a2.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NTA0MDgzODgyNDkzOTYy.jpg" /><figcaption>Triple C Peptide Firming Oil, $62 at &lt;a href="https://www.dgskincare.com/productdetails.cfm?SKU=BA533610"&gt;dgskincare.com&lt;/a&gt;</figcaption></figure></div><p><strong>Me:</strong> “See, it’s funny you say that, because I think people think they need to scrub away the sweat and dirt and oil. I don’t think people think about replenishing their skin after the gym. Myself included.”</p><p><strong>DDG:</strong> “You absolutely need to replenish your skin after a workout. You’re sweating out nutrients, you’re wiping your face, you’re depleting.”</p><p>I’m telling you all, I’m forever changed by this conversation. Since talking to Dr. Gross, I have totally revamped my pre- and post-gym skin-care routine.&nbsp;</p><div tml-image="ci01c889c170012a83" tml-image-caption="" tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a5.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NTA0MDQ4OTg1ODk0ODgy.jpg" /><figcaption></figcaption></figure></div><p>In my gym bag, I’ve started carrying <a href="http://www.drugstore.com/simple-cleansing-micellar-water/qxp543168">Simple Skincare Micellar Cleansing Water</a> to remove my makeup before class without drying my skin out. Clearly, I’ve started carrying my own towel in my bag as well. After class, I do a quick rinse-off with water, and I’ve been using an alcohol-free toner like <a href="http://www.beauty.com/darphin-intral-toner/qxp210260">Darphin Intral Toner</a> (it has chamomile, for when my skin is hella sensitive) or <a href="http://www.sephora.com/black-tea-age-delay-instant-infusion-treatment-toner-P384777">Fresh Black Tea Age-Delay Toner</a> (on days when my skin is feeling normal or more oily than usual).&nbsp;I’m trying to wait until my skin cools down before applying much more than water because I don’t want to irritate it.&nbsp;</p><p>I’ve also been carrying the <a href="http://www.skyniceland.com/product-39-icelandic-relief-eye-pen">Skyn Iceland Icelandic Relief Eye Pen</a>, because eyes need love, too. This guy is portable enough to carry around in my purse, so I should just start taking it with me everywhere to help with my under-eye bags, which are out of control these days.&nbsp;</p><p>Finally, I’ve been making sure to really rehydrate my skin before bed. I’m a night-workout person, so when I get home, I can really use a ton of moisturizing products, like the aforementioned Dr. Dennis Gross Triple C Peptide Firming Oil. If I ever start working out in the morning (honestly, it will probably never happen) then I’ll switch to a lighter-weight moisturizer, so I can be sure it doesn’t irritate my skin but still replenishes.&nbsp;</p><div tml-image="ci01c889c0b001c80a" tml-image-caption="Here I am, makeup-free. But I'm damn proud of myself because I'm a workout-aholic." tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a3.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NTA0MDQ4OTg1ODcyODYy.jpg" /><figcaption>Here I am, makeup-free. But I'm damn proud of myself because I'm a workout-aholic.</figcaption></figure></div><p>I honestly can’t believe how much more effort I’ve been putting into my skin routine after the gym, but it is 100 percent worth it. If I’m going to work out so I can LIVE FOREVER, why not have my skin look great while I’m at it?&nbsp;</p><p>What's your après-gym skin-care routine? Are you going to stop using the gym's own towels?&nbsp;</p>I probably didn't think of it because I'm not a famous dermatologist.http://www.xojane.com/beauty/dermatologist-gym-skincare-advice
http://www.xojane.com/beauty/dermatologist-gym-skincare-adviceBeautyTue, 03 Mar 2015 10:00:00 -0800Lisa BensleyI'm Quitting Tinder Again, But Not For The Reasons You May Think<!-- tml-version="2" --><p>There was a time when I was sternly-worded-letter angry at Victoria's Secret over their pricing — specifically, how A, B and C cups of many styles were one price, and anything D-cup or bigger of the same styles were a few dollars more.&nbsp;</p><p>I've heard the "it costs more because it takes more material" argument, but then shouldn't the B cost more than the A, and C cost more than the B? And don't some of the smaller sizes have more padding than the bigger ones, thereby essentially leveling the material-amount playing field?&nbsp;</p><p>Regardless of how it was justified, to me it felt like a penalty for having a little more boulder below the shoulders. It hasn't stopped me from recently forking over $6 more than my smaller-breasted brethren for their <a href="https://www.victoriassecret.com/bras/shop-all-bras/demi-bra-incredible-by-victorias-secret?ProductID=231634&amp;CatalogueType=OLS">Incredible Demi Bra</a>, though, because 1) it's ridiculously comfortable and 2) it's one of the only styles of theirs that goes up to 38DDD. Whatever.</p><p>I might have decided to conditionally forgive Victoria's Secret for their big-tit tax, but another business that knows my cleavage pretty intimately, Tinder, has given me a similar yet, in my opinion, unforgivable reason to stop using their service.</p><p>Well, I mean, it's Tinder — that it's Tinder is reason enough to quit Tinder. But while <a href="http://www.xojane.com/sex/worst-first-tinder-message-ever">icky messages</a> and dates with guys who turned out to be jerks had motivated me to delete my account in the past, straight-up discrimination has me removing the app from my iPhone&nbsp;this time around.</p><p>I'd already been thinking of quitting again — a guy I'd met online had unsolicitedly texted mere hours after we'd hooked up to tell me that he'd be embarrassed to date someone my size, and I just wanted to stop even looking at more dudes who could turn out to be so brutal — and yesterday, I was telling <a href="http://www.xojane.com/author/rachel-perkins">Rachel</a> that I was thinking of doing so. It was then that she said, "Probably for the best," and sent me a link to an article that had just gone up on Mashable, about how Tinder is rolling out a not-free version of their precious service called Tinder Plus. The headline: "<a href="http://mashable.com/2015/03/02/tinder-plus-premium-features/">Tinder launches premium service that costs twice as much for people over 30</a>."</p><div tml-image="ci01c8880e600199de" tml-image-caption="The angry Hello Kitty was animated, by the way." tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a3.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NTAyMTg0MTY0NzYwMDMw.jpg" /><figcaption>The angry Hello Kitty was animated, by the way.</figcaption></figure></div><p>Karissa Bell reports in her Mashable article, "The dating app is officially launching its suite of premium features, the cost of which vary based on how old you are. In the U.S., users under 30 will pay $9.99 per month, while those 30 and older will pay $19.99 for the same service."&nbsp;</p><p>OK, so that's actual, literal, blatant ageism, right? There's no "more material" argument here. Same exact service, completely different price just for being older.</p><p>Because I would never actually pay to use Tinder, even if I stayed on the app, I would be missing out on premium services like "unlimited liking capabilities" (something that was previously available to everyone), being able to undo accidental left swipes (it does suck to inadvertently reject someone just because you've gotten into the hypnotic rhythm of "nope"-ing people), and looking for potential dates in any part of the world, even if you're not there at the moment. I can live without these perks, but now that I know that they think it's OK to charge people over 30 more for the very same extras, I think I can live without Tinder altogether.</p><p>For the ever-more-rapidly expiring life of me, I cannot think of a justifiable reason to charge people who aren't twenty-something twice as much. Is it a jab at people who are "still single" in their thirties, as Rachel facetiously implied? Do they think we're more desperate and, therefore, willing to spend more money?&nbsp;</p><p><a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Technology/tinder-charging-people-30-tinder/story?id=29335809">ABC News</a> asked Tinder why they're charging us Olds double what they're charging those who have been on this Earth less than 11,000 days. Here's the utter twaddle&nbsp;their VP of corporate communications, Rosette Pambakian, replied with: "Younger users are just as excited about Tinder Plus, but are more budget constrained, and need a lower price to pull the trigger."</p><p>Oh, so the lower price is a hardship discount! I get it now. My income definitely doubled the day I turned 30, so it makes perfect sense to charge me twice as much as what they would have when I was 29. NOT! (Sorry, but I really wanna bring back "NOT!" Solid proof I'm over 30, I guess.)</p><div tml-image="ci01c888d54001c80a" tml-image-caption="Here I am talking about Tinder with absolutely no hostility in my voice on HLN's &quot;The Daily Share&quot; &lt;a href=&quot;https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=no0X9S9TtGE&quot;&gt;a few weeks ago&lt;/a&gt;. I would not be so kind today." tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a1.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NTAzMDM4MzI2Mzc5Nzk0.jpg" /><figcaption>Here I am talking about Tinder with absolutely no hostility in my voice on HLN's "The Daily Share" &lt;a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=no0X9S9TtGE"&gt;a few weeks ago&lt;/a&gt;. I would not be so kind today.</figcaption></figure></div><p>The cost is avoidable, so it's not like I'm pissed off because Tinder's going to take $20 from me against my will; I'm pissed off because it's just flagrantly discriminatory. I like to think I'd be just as offended by this business decision if it didn't potentially affect me. For example, I've never gone to a bar's "ladies night" even though I might benefit from it, because I think it's unfair to charge dudes more for the same drinks. (Now that I'm quitting Tinder, though, I may need to look into those.)</p><p>Although it doesn't really stick it to Tinder to quit the free version of their service, I still feel like it's the right thing to do now that they've sent the message that they think it's cool to gouge people based on their age. And perhaps if enough of us&nbsp;Methuselahs stage an exodus, Tinder will take notice and charge everyone the same thing for Tinder Plus.</p><p>Not that I'd ever spend even the under-30 price on Tinder Plus. I'd rather put the money towards a bra.</p>While icky messages and dates with jerks motivated me to delete my account in the past, straight-up age discrimination has me removing the app from my phone this time around.http://www.xojane.com/tech/tinder-charging-more-if-over-30
http://www.xojane.com/tech/tinder-charging-more-if-over-30TechTue, 03 Mar 2015 09:00:00 -0800MarciHere's How to Deal With a Narcissist Without Losing Your Cool<!-- tml-version="2" --><p>If you are related to, <strong><a href="http://www.yourtango.com/married-lovestage">married</a></strong> to, or divorced from a narcissist, then you know how difficult it is reason with them.</p><p><a href="http://www.yourtango.com/experts/dr-susan-heitler-creator-of-power-of-two-marriage/narcissism-alert-6-signs-you-need-notice">Narcissists</a> are masters at manipulation. They are often intelligent and charming when you first meet them. In the beginning, you hold them to high esteem. They're fully aware of this, of course, and they <strong><a href="http://www.yourtango.com/love">love</a></strong> to bask in your adulation. But once you catch on to their tactics and question behavior that is the opposite of their once-charming selves, they become deeply threatened. A narcissist will paint himself as a victim and you as his aggressor, expertly blaming you for the relationship's demise and all of the other misfortunes in his life.</p><p>You, as the codependent, try to reason with him, change his mind, or challenge every verbal assault point-by-point with the hope that the narcissist will snap out of his irrational behavior.</p><p>Maybe this time he will understand<em>, </em>you think.</p><p>If I explain it to him this way, he will get it. He can't be THAT close-minded; I'm going to tell him once more.</p><p>But the more you explain, the colder and more manipulative he becomes. He may talk to you like a child, as if you're stupid. And you can't even believe how a person can lack such empathy, so you explain more, trying harder and harder to make him "get it" — and the more you do that, the more it supports his narcissistic fantasies that he is better and smarter than anyone.</p><p>The constant attempts to explain or get some kind of emotional response with no return is what I call the "Narcissistic Vortex." It's a deep black hole that sucks you in, with no way out. And until you understand this, you are going to think you're crazy and unloved — or worse, that you aren't worthy of anyone else's love, so you end up staying with this person or being alone forever.</p><p>If you are not married and are trying to end a relationship with a narcissist, then my expert advice is to have no contact with him. End the relationship cold turkey, as if giving up a very bad addiction.</p><p>But what if you are divorcing a narcissist, or you must endure a co-parenting relationship long term? How do you manage the constant manipulation, even as you try to get on with your life? He might blame you for the smallest mistakes (thereby raising his own self-worth), or criticize you for everything you do with the kids. And because he is SO grossly mistaken, you write him a long email explaining your actions, or you become engaged in a long texting battle.</p><p>And thus, you enter the Narcissistic Vortex.</p><p>You must remember, this vortex is a trap. By replying to him (no matter how negatively), it feeds his narcissistic supply — his false sense of self that he is better than you (or anyone else, for that matter).</p><p>So if the manipulation happens via email, for example, you must first ask yourself: Does it require a reply? Are there any crucial issues that really require your response, like financial matters during <strong><a href="http://www.yourtango.com/breakups-and-divorce">divorce</a></strong> or logistics with the children?</p><p>Unfortunately, narcissists can never write an email without making themselves look like a victim/martyr or passive-aggressively knocking your ability to function as an adult. The true secret to engaging with a narcissist is to give him little to no response. Reply with "yes" or "no," or merely factual replies like, "Yes, I am picking the kids up at 5 pm today." Ignore all other jabs or attempts to get a heated reaction from you.</p><p>If your narcissist wants to speak with you over the phone about certain matters, let him ask you questions for which a yes or no answer is required. If the conversation results in accusations or manipulation, simply say to him, "If you have anything to discuss with me, please put it in an email," and then hang up.</p><p>You will never change his mind. You will never get him to see your side of things. As long as you attempt to do so, you will forever be stuck in his vortex and unable to move on.</p><p><em>Reprinted with permission from <a href="http://www.yourtango.com/experts/lindsey-ellison/1-secret-how-engage-narcissist">YourTango</a>. Want more? Check out these related stories:</em></p><p><a href="http://www.yourtango.com/experts/summer-engman/i-turned-my-crazy-possessive-jealousy-crazy-deep-intimacy"><em>I Turned My Crazy, Possessive Jealousy Into Crazy, Deep Intimacy</em></a></p><p><a href="http://www.yourtango.com/2015262949/my-ex-best-friend-married-my-first-love"><em>My (Ex) Best Friend Married My First Love</em></a></p><p><a href="http://www.yourtango.com/2015262947/8-toxic-phrases-destroy-relationships"><em>8 Toxic Phrases That Destroy Relationships</em></a></p>Don't get sucked into their "Narcissistic Vortex."http://www.xojane.com/relationships/how-to-deal-with-a-narcissist-without-losing-your-cool
http://www.xojane.com/relationships/how-to-deal-with-a-narcissist-without-losing-your-coolRelationshipsTue, 03 Mar 2015 08:30:00 -0800Lindsey EllisonIT HAPPENED TO ME: Acne Meds Destroyed My Mental Health<!-- tml-version="2" --><div tml-image="ci01c87670c0012a83" tml-image-caption="My face before and after acne meds." tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a4.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,w_620/MTI4NDgyODE1NDcyODM5Mjk5.png" /><figcaption>My face before and after acne meds.</figcaption></figure></div><p>I stood in my bathroom, staring into my mirror. The face in the mirror was mine, and I recognized it on an intellectual level—I could tell myself "that's me"—but it didn't feel like me. I had no emotional connection to the face. I could barely see it as a whole; it was just a collection of features.</p><p>I splashed some cold water on my face and watched my mascara drip down my cheeks. I was sifting through my memories, trying to find one that felt "real," that would bring me back in contact with the real world.</p><p>My apartment last year, in the smoggy capital of Azerbaijan. That's not real. Azerbaijan's not a real country. I made it up.</p><p>My job as an English teacher. I didn't really go to work today. None of that happened.</p><p>My sweet, friendly cat, Honeydew. My cat doesn't exist.</p><p>Frantically, I tried to reassure myself with Descartes: I think, therefore I am. I must be a real person. But it didn't work—I just couldn't make myself believe it. There was something wrong with my brain, and I didn't know how to fix it.</p><p>A few weeks before, everything was fine. My only problem was that the antibiotic medication I'd been taking for acne, doxycycline, had stopped working, and my skin was breaking out. I called my doctor (through Skype—I'm still living overseas, now in Russia) and she said my body had developed a resistance to doxycycline, and it was time to switch meds. She suggested another antibiotic, minocycline, that would have a similar effect. I agreed, and my mom filled the prescription in the U.S. and shipped it to me. I started taking it last Sunday.</p><p>On Tuesday, I was teaching a class of preteens when an odd sensation came over me. It suddenly seemed like nothing around me was real, like a thick layer of glass had descended between me and everything else. I remember looking into one student's face and feeling like she was miles away. I told myself I was just having a blood sugar crash, and that I just had to fake my way through this class and I could scarf down some hummus. I tweeted around that time that I felt "lightheaded and subhuman, like I'm under five feet of water."</p><p>When it didn't go away, I told myself it would be better the next day. It wasn't.</p><p>My memories of these few days are fuzzy. I remember looking at my paperwork and not understanding if I had filled it out or how. Everyday routines like writing in my class log slipped through my fingers. Time seemed to move glacier-slow, but I was always running late. On Twitter, I said I was "swimming through jello." I thought—hoped—that I was just tired, and every night I expected to wake up feeling better the next day.</p><p>By Thursday, I was really scared. Nothing I did affected the feeling of unreality. No matter how much sleep I got, how many vegetables I ate, or how many breathing exercises I did, it was the same—this unsettling feeling that my "self" wasn't present. It was as if someone had built a movie set that perfectly replicated my workplace and my apartment, and populated it with robots that resembled my students and friends. I could see and recognize these things, but I couldn't connect to them. They were stripped of their emotional weight and meaning.</p><p>Standing in that bathroom on Thursday night, unable to connect even to my own face, I understood that this wasn't going to go away. It was a serious mental health symptom. I panicked, trying to imagine how I was going to deal with this. Where would I find a psychiatrist in Russia? Would I have to go on anti-psychotics? Would anyone even believe me about what I was feeling?</p><p>With tears rolling down my cheeks, I went to Google my symptoms. I ended up on the Wikipedia page for "depersonalization," and right there under "causes," it listed minocycline.</p><p>Relief hit me like a wall. I wasn't losing my mind; it was just a side effect.</p><div tml-image="ci01c876747001c80a" tml-image-caption="Just a few tiny pills ruined everything." tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a4.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NDgyODMxMzEwNTU5NzEw.jpg" /><figcaption>Just a few tiny pills ruined everything.</figcaption></figure></div><p>What I know now about minocycline is that this side effect is rare. One of the things that differentiates minocycline from other antibiotics is that it affects your central nervous system. Common side effects include dizziness and lack of coordination, which is why a lot of people don't like being on it. And in rare cases like mine, it can cause depersonalization—the feeling that you are separate from your body, and simply watching yourself act.</p><p>The problem was, I'd already taken my pill for that night, and the depersonalization was stronger than ever. I kept looking around at my room—my wardrobe, my armchair, my TV—experiencing over and over the cold disbelief in their existence. I just couldn't accept them as real. The logical part of my brain knew I was experiencing a drug effect, but that didn't make it feel any better.</p><p>I looked at the clock and saw that it was 4:00 am. I saw it, but it meant nothing to me. I dimly understood that it was late and I should sleep, but there was no urgency in it; I just knew that was what I should do. I turned out the lights and lay down.</p><p>Almost immediately, I started sobbing. My heart was racing like I'd drunk too much coffee, and my whole body was shaking. I felt that I'd poisoned myself. I tried to distract myself, but I couldn't focus on anything. I tried to read a book, but the blocks of text wouldn't resolve into words with meaning. Every time I stopped distracting myself I started crying again. </p><p>The crying was reflexive, not emotional. I didn't have any emotions, just a yawning numbness and a gnawing anxiety that I would never be normal again. I watched the time on the clock click later and later, seeing the numbers but not being able to connect staying up so late with any fear of consequences. I wasn't tired—I don't know if it's because minocycline can affect your sleep schedule, or if I was simply unable to feel tiredness at that time. I just wanted to fall asleep so I could have a blessed few hours off. I couldn't remember ever feeling worse in my life.</p><p>The next day, I went to work. It was a huge mistake. I could barely stand to sit at my desk, I was so drained and overwhelmed. All my senses were muffled. It was hard to hear people speaking. I had to ask my students to repeat themselves, and sometimes the words just sounded like gibberish.&nbsp;</p><p>Somehow I dragged myself through two classes, and then broke down crying in the teachers' lounge and begged my boss to let me go home. He reminded me I only had one more class and it was too late to cancel it, so I went to the bathroom, wiped my eyes, and tried to pull myself together.</p><div tml-image="ci01c87677e0012a83" tml-image-caption="Me at work last Friday, deeply regretting not calling in sick." tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a4.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NDgyODQ2MDc0NTMxODEw.jpg" /><figcaption>Me at work last Friday, deeply regretting not calling in sick.</figcaption></figure></div><p>It was a relief to be home for the weekend with nothing to do but curl up in bed, but even that was difficult. Just existing was a nightmare. I had no respite from the feeling that nothing around me was real. I felt trapped and I couldn't snap myself out of it.</p><p>I couldn't do anything. I still couldn't read. I couldn't watch TV, because I couldn't follow the plot. I did anyway, and ended up going back every few minutes because I'd missed some dialogue and didn't understand what was happening.&nbsp;</p><p>I knew that at some point before the medication I'd felt normal, but I couldn't even imagine what that might feel like. I obsessively Googled "depersonalization" to read other people's accounts of what I was going through so I could feel like I wasn't alone.</p><p>Finally, after three days off the drugs, I started to feel better. Even a little bit of improvement felt incredible. Now it's been over a week minocycline-free—10 days since the depersonalization started—and I almost feel like a person again, although I'm still spacey and having memory problems.</p><p>There are two lasting outcomes. First, I have more respect than ever for the way your brain can mess with you. Depersonalization can be a symptom of anxiety disorders, dissociative disorders, schizophrenia, and lots of other conditions, which aren't solved as easily as going off your pills.&nbsp;</p><p>The same feeling that turned me from a productive teacher to a sobbing braindead lump on my couch can also manifest as a chronic condition (depersonalization disorder). Although my experience was scary, I'm lucky that I'm going to be okay.</p><p>And the second is that I'm almost nostalgic for my acne breakouts. When they start up again, at least I'll know they're real.&nbsp;</p>For 10 days I felt like nothing was real, thanks to a side effect of antibiotics.http://www.xojane.com/it-happened-to-me/depersonalization-minocycline
http://www.xojane.com/it-happened-to-me/depersonalization-minocyclineIt Happened To MeTue, 03 Mar 2015 08:00:00 -0800Magdalena NewhouseCongratulations to Pizza, Recently Voted The World's Most Addictive Food<!-- tml-version="2" --><p><em>Trigger Warning: This article discusses food addiction and binge eating and may be triggering to some</em>.</p><p>The wise and wonderful Emily McCombs once said “I kind of don’t even want pizza if I can only have one slice.”</p><p>There is such truth in that tweet. The idea of only having once slice is cruel. It takes me at least two to get warmed up, which is why I've never understood those articles that prattle on about how “pizza can actually be kind of good for you if you get thin crust, and light cheese, and extra veggies and only have two slices." Not only is that <em>completely</em> missing the point of pizza, but limiting yourself to two slices of pizza is unnatural. In fact, to do so is to defy science.</p><p>According to a <a href="http://journals.plos.org/plosone/article?id=10.1371/journal.pone.0117959">recent study</a> by Erica M. Schulte, Nicole M. Avena, and Ashley N. Gearhardt, the more processed, sugary, or fatty a food is, the harder it is to stop eating it. Pizza beat out the 34 other foods used in the study, emerging victoriuous and claiming the title of “most addictive food."&nbsp;</p><div tml-image="ci01c87b6fe0019512" tml-image-caption="Image via journals.plos.org" tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a2.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,w_620/MTI4NDg4MzA4NzM2MDM5Mzkw.png" /><figcaption>Image via journals.plos.org</figcaption></figure></div><p>Congratulations pizza, though let it be known that I never doubted you for a moment. (It should be noted however, that calling pizza "the most addictive food in the world" as I just did in the title isn't entirely accurate, as only 35 foods were tested, but you get the idea.)</p><div tml-image="ci01c3c9efe001efe2" tml-image-caption="Good job, buddy." tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a5.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI3MTY3MjQzOTA0NjY1NjEw.jpg" /><figcaption>Good job, buddy.</figcaption></figure></div><p>While the idea of “addictive” food is somewhat controversial among researchers (and the warring voices in my head), it’s undeniable that certain foods <em>are</em> harder to stop eating. I've always thought that this is because salty, sugary, and fatty foods taste <em>really good</em>, but Schulte et. al., think that the inability to "eat just one" potato chip has less to do with flavor and more to do with foods' addictive properties, which they posit work in a way that is similar to drugs.&nbsp;</p><blockquote tml-render-layout="inline"><p>Much like the term “drug,” which can encompass both addictive (e.g. heroin) and non-addictive (e.g. aspirin) compounds, the term “food” is also broad and refers not only to foods in their natural state (e.g. vegetables), but also those with added amounts of fat and/or refined carbohydrates (e.g. cake) or artificial sweeteners (e.g. diet soda). &nbsp;&nbsp;</p></blockquote><blockquote tml-render-layout="inline"><p>Addictive substances are rarely in their natural state, but have been altered or processed in a manner that increases their abuse potential. For example, grapes are processed into wine and poppies are refined into opium. A similar process may be occurring within our food supply. There are naturally occurring foods that contain sugar (e.g., fruits) or foods that naturally contain fat (e.g., nuts). Notably, sugar (or refined carbohydrates) and fat rarely occur in the same food naturally, but many palatable foods have been processed to have artificially elevated quantities of both (e.g. cake, pizza, chocolate). &nbsp;&nbsp;</p></blockquote><p>Before we go any further, I think it's important to understand that when the researchers are talking about "food addiction" they do not mean "eating addiction" and the difference between these two terms is at the center of the debate over whether or not food companies should be held responsible for selling "addictive substances."&nbsp;According to the authors of the study highly-processed foods may be to blame for the "obesity epidemic."&nbsp;</p><p>But John Menzies, Ph.D., a University of Edinburgh researcher disagrees. According to an <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/09/23/food-addiction-eating-addiction_n_5844712.html">article on the Huffington Post</a>, Menzies believes that focusing on the food itself is the wrong approach, and that human behavior is what we should be studying:</p><blockquote tml-render-layout="inline"><p>'Food addiction' has been implicated as a potential contributor to the obesity epidemic,” wrote Menzies in an email to HuffPost. "However, there is no association between diagnoses of addictive-like eating and body weight.&nbsp;</p></blockquote><blockquote tml-render-layout="inline"><p>'Eating addiction' shifts the focus away from the food itself to the behaviour,” he wrote. "It emphasises that we need to look carefully at people's relationship with food and understand how people make their food choices.”</p></blockquote><p>Personally, I tend to agree with Dr. Menzies, but that's mostly because I've seen people exhibit addictive behavior toward iceberg lettuce and rice cakes, neither of which fall into the "high-sugar, high-fat" category of foods. Plus, I don't expect snack companies to provide me with nourishing, balanced meals. If they make a chip I can't quit putting in my mouth, I consider they've done their job. Is it a saintly job? No. It's actually a little evil, especially when you consider "the children" and all of that, but from a scientific standpoint, I am always impressed.</p><p>But then there are the rats. (Rats are unavoidable in discussions such as these.) According to Shulte, et. al.:</p><blockquote tml-render-layout="inline"><p>Although there is little evidence in humans of what foods may be addictive, animal models suggest that highly processed foods are associated with addictive-like eating. Rats with a propensity towards binge eating exhibit addictive-like behavior in response to highly processed foods, such as Oreo Double Stuf cookies or frosting, but not to their typical chow [<a href="http://journals.plos.org/plosone/article?id=10.1371/journal.pone.0117959#pone.0117959.ref028">28</a>,<a href="http://journals.plos.org/plosone/article?id=10.1371/journal.pone.0117959#pone.0117959.ref029">29</a>]. Rats maintained on a diet of highly processed foods, such as cheesecake, exhibit down regulation in the dopamine system that also occurs in response to drugs of abuse [<a href="http://journals.plos.org/plosone/article?id=10.1371/journal.pone.0117959#pone.0117959.ref030">30</a>]. Further, rats are motivated to seek out highly processed foods despite negative consequences (foot shock), which is another feature of an addiction [<a href="http://journals.plos.org/plosone/article?id=10.1371/journal.pone.0117959#pone.0117959.ref031">31</a>]. Therefore, at least in animal models, overconsumption of highly processed foods, but not standard rat chow, appears to produce some addictive-like characteristics. This reinforces the idea that not all foods are likely to be equally associated with addictive-like eating behaviors. &nbsp;</p></blockquote><p>In her <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/02/23/food-addiction_n_6709756.html">interview with HuffPostLive</a>, Dr. Nicole Avena (one of the studies authors) explains that&nbsp;the solution is education: "I think a lot of it has to do with education and understanding that you know if you're posed to eat pizza that it might be a good idea to try to put the brakes on after maybe just one slice. We are now finding research that's suggesting that these foods can be very very difficult to control our intake of. So I think having that awareness and knowing that there could be effects on the brain and changes in response to over-eating these foods continually, I think that can really help people to try to understand that they may need to take a different approach when trying to moderate their food intake."</p><p>Suggesting that the someone with a pizza addiction only have one slice seems <em>kind of </em>like telling an alcoholic to only have one beer, but Avena was probably trying to avoid "being that crazy woman who told people to stop eating pizza."</p><p>Honestly, I don't think pizza's appeal lies exclusively in fat, sugar and salt. Sure, they are <em>definitely</em> contributing, but oddly enough, when I first read that pizza had been crowned "most addicting," my mind didn't go to gooey cheese or greasy pepperoni, but to Doritos.&nbsp;</p><p>Over a year ago, The New York Times published a piece illuminating exactly why <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2013/10/01/dining/nacho-graphic.html">Nacho Cheese Doritos</a> are impossible to quit eating. If my husband and I shop while hungry (SWH is very dangerous), we'll inevitably end up with a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos. They rarely last the car ride home.</p><p>The Dorito is fascinating from a scientific standpoint. Considering that they are <em>engineered</em> to be delicious, you and your mouth never stood a chance. Fat, salt, and MSG all play their parts, but the real trick is how the various flavors play across your tongue:</p><blockquote tml-render-layout="inline"><p>Despite the powerful tastes in Nacho Cheese, the Doritos formula balances them so well that no single flavor lingers in the mind after you've eaten a chip. This avoids what food scientists call “sensory specific satiety,” or the feeling of fullness caused by a dominant flavor. Would you eat a whole bag of rosemary chips? With Doritos, you go back for more. &nbsp;</p></blockquote><p>The lack of "one note-ness" keeps your chip-eating interesting; your mouth never gets bored because it's never exposed to one flavor for very long. The same could be said for pizza.</p><p>The sauce <em>alone</em> is a symphony of spices and, if you get a lot of toppings, you can keep your tongue interested for hours. Who hasn't finished the last bit of chewy crust, with it's little bits of burnt cheese, to suddenly be hit with the desire to revisit pepperoni's salty umami, or the burn of a jalapeno slice?</p><p>In food, there's a fine line between "addicting" and "so good you don't want to stop eating." Binge eating isn't restricted to processed foods, and by focusing to heavily on those, we may miss out on the chance to examine our relationships and attitudes toward eating and food as a whole. Foods with fat and sugar may very well be more addicting than those without, but it's most likely not the whole story and shouldn't be the only thing we talk about when discussing addictive behaviors around food.</p><p>I've powered through a minimally-processed pound of prosciutto at a pace that I am not very proud of. I've made myself sick on fresh-picked cherries. I though I was addicted to Diet Coke, until I realized that I'll drink any canned beverage at an absurd rate and started buying La Croix instead. (Which I now drink 5 to 8 cans of a day; I suspect I like the aluminum.)</p><p>It <em>is</em> easier to binge on processed food. These things are engineered to taste better and they're usually very convenient. But food is one of those very personal subjects for which there is no "one size fits all" solution.&nbsp;</p><p>Rats may be unable to shake the allure of the Oreo, but we are not rats. We have the ability to listen to our bodies and understand how our choices impact how we feel, both physically and emotionally.&nbsp;Eating an entire pizza on a daily basis would make me feel terrible, but every once in a while? It feels amazing.</p>Limiting yourself to two slices of pizza is unnatural. In fact, to do so is to defy science.http://www.xojane.com/healthy/pizza-most-addictive-food
http://www.xojane.com/healthy/pizza-most-addictive-foodHealthyTue, 03 Mar 2015 07:00:00 -0800Claire LowerI Went To the LGBT Expo and All I Got Was This Icky Corporate Exploitation of My Community<!-- tml-version="2" --><div tml-image="ci01c8789fb00199de" tml-image-caption="Where my gays at?" tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a3.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NDg1MjE1Mjg1ODU2MjY2.jpg" /><figcaption>Where my gays at?</figcaption></figure></div><p>I’ve been at the New York LGBT Expo for 45 minutes, and I’m depressed.&nbsp;</p><p>I’ve passed booth after booth of corporate offerings (MetLife wants me to “Build a truly diversified portfolio of retirement and wealth management” which isn’t the diversity message I expected) interspersed with small (presumably queer-owned) businesses shilling everything from knitted hats to facial scrubs, and I can’t help but wonder what the point is. </p><p>Is a LGBT Expo really for the community -- or is it just a chance for creepy corporations to gaywash and reach a diversity market?</p><p>First let me say that yes, I’m queer.&nbsp;</p><p>I live with my girlfriend and our two big dogs that we treat like children, a fridge full of vegan yogurt and bookshelves crammed with Judith “Jack” Halberstam, James Baldwin and Janet Mock. I’m a working-class lesbian journalist who frequently writes about legislation and policy that impacts the LGBT community. This event, this Expo -- it’s for me. It’s for my people.</p><p>So why do I feel like running home, hopping in a hot shower and sliding slowly down the tile while clutching myself and crying?&nbsp;</p><p>For nearly an hour, I’ve been dodging the ubiquitous corporate logos of Zipcar, MetLife insurance, Mohegan Sun casinos, Pella doors and windows, First Investors, Morgan Stanley, Con Edison, WellCare health plans, Uber and Delta airlines.&nbsp;</p><p>I feel dirty, like my identity, sexuality and who I love have been sold to a data brokerage firm and translated into potential sales brackets (or whatever marketing people call it). I’m shuffling between a string of booths advertising the benefits of various cities: Philadelphia, Las Vegas,&nbsp;Curaçao, Puerto Vallarta, all of whom want my gay money just as much as they want everyone else’s. Hooray!</p><p>Before you call me an ungrateful asshole, let me make it clear that I understand why, traditionally, <a href="http://www.xojane.com/issues/tiffany-same-sex-couple-engagement-ad">LGBT</a> expos happen.&nbsp;</p><p>I worked at a queer community center and know that outreach and public presence are vital to reaching every last marginalized person who is queer or questioning or coming out -- or even just lonely. Corporate donations make up a large part of the funding streams behind community centers and non-profits that serve our community and <a href="http://www.xojane.com/it-happened-to-me/my-parents-dont-know-im-gay-and-i-live-with-them">queer people</a> who work at those companies often benefit greatly from LGBT employee groups that are psyched to represent at events like this. It’s essentially a trade show, the gay version of Las Vegas’ annual Consumer Electronics fair.</p><p>Looking around, I do see more diversity than I typically do at the bars. There are graying seniors, moms with overflowing strollers, teens, the occasional wheelchair, working class folks and groups that seem like they trucked in from the ‘burbs. The LGBT Expo is widely publicized, centrally located at the insanely large Jacob Javits Convention Center in Midtown, and $10 discount admission was available on Living Social. In that way, it really is for all of us.</p><p>But if this is for all of us -- why aren’t we better represented?&nbsp;</p><p>Many of the queer-owned business and organizations I know and love are nowhere to be seen. And why do we let in massive corporations that take up space in our house, smiling and pretending to give a shit about our issues for as long as it takes to swipe our debit cards? </p><p>The expo is partially sponsored by Uber, which last time I checked is a company with absolutely horrible corporate ethics and a sexist culture. Uber has <a href="http://www.theverge.com/2014/11/18/7240215/uber-exec-casually-threatens-sarah-lacy-with-smear-campaign">threatened</a> the families of journalists who expose their shitty business practices, run promotions that invite male passengers to request a “<a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/charliewarzel/french-uber-bird-hunting-promotion-pairs-lyon-riders-with-a#.lsDwONqNw">hot chick</a>” driver they can personally harass, and the company’s drivers have raped so many passengers that the company has installed a “<a href="http://my.chicagotribune.com/#section/-1/article/p2p-82809298/">panic button</a>” in certain rape-heavy Uber markets (if you’re in Chicago, Boston, LA or India: take a taxi instead).&nbsp;</p><p>If corporations were people (sadly, they are treated as such by law), then Uber is the date-raping frat boy you definitely don’t invite to your sorority house. But who cares about all that silly personal safety stuff when you can get a free ride up to $20 with promo code LGBTEXPONYC20?</p><div tml-image="ci01c8789f900399de" tml-image-caption="Get raped at the tap of a button." tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a3.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NDg1MjE1Mjg1ODY2NDY2.jpg" /><figcaption>Get raped at the tap of a button.</figcaption></figure></div><p>If I never see another unethical car company, <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/hgrant/budweiser-and-miller-suddenly-realize-that-gay-men">beer manufacturer</a>, or <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/adam-hanft/corporate-america-surrenders_b_4495116.html?utm_hp_ref=gay-voices&amp;ir=Gay+Voices">investment bank</a> throw up a rainbow flag and act as if that should mean something to me, it will be too soon.</p><p>As I write this, longtime <em>Village Voice</em> columnist Michael Musto is being given a lifetime achievement award onstage, a bevy of shade-throwing drag queens alongside nudie talk show host Robin Byrd inducting him with a roast of sorts in front of an audience of about 30 people. That’s the thing about this event -- it’s oddly empty.&nbsp;</p><p>I’m just old enough to remember when events like pride festivals still felt subversive and brave, and just young enough to see clearly how co-opted, corporate and way too expensive they’ve become. Like pride, representation at the expo skews heavily corporate with a dwindling sense of the actual <a href="http://www.xojane.com/it-happened-to-me/kasey-caron-homecoming-king">LGBT community</a> participating.</p><div tml-image="ci01c8789f7001c80a" tml-image-caption="But... why?" tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a3.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NDg1MjE1MDE3NDIwODEw.jpg" /><figcaption>But... why?</figcaption></figure></div><p>The empty, icky feeling brought on by consumerist overload at the expo could be tempered in the future.&nbsp;</p><p>Maybe instead of whoring out to shitty companies like Uber to pay for space at the sprawling industrial city that is the Javits Center, we could just have the expo at New York’s actual <a href="https://gaycenter.org">LGBT community center</a>?&nbsp;</p><p>It would cost less, and we could replace our new corporate besties with things that reflect our culture: bookstores like Bureau of General Services Queer Division, game-changing activists and organizers like Act Up and Sylvia Rivera Law Project, and entertainment provided in the form of vogue balls and Hey Queen-style dance parties.&nbsp;</p><p>For Goddess’ sake, at least a booth with some vegan eats.</p><div tml-image="ci01c8789f900199de" tml-image-caption="Oh good, the NYPD's here." tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a5.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NDg1MjE1MDE3NDMxMDEw.jpg" /><figcaption>Oh good, the NYPD's here.</figcaption></figure></div><p>I chalk up the soullessness of the expo, in part, to a generally dwindling culture of queer spaces.&nbsp;</p><p>Lesbian bars have <a href="http://www.autostraddle.com/tag/the-state-of-the-lesbian-bar/">shuttered</a> left and right over the past couple of years, and <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2003/01/13/opinion/closing-time.html">gay bookstores</a> too. For the most part, queers have safe access to places that used to shut us out or make us feel unwelcome — so we’ve left behind the gayborhoods in favor of the monthly dance party at an otherwise straight bar.&nbsp;</p><p>We work in the White House. We win Oscars. There’s such a prevalence of gayness in media now that it’s hard to even say there’s a single “we” anymore.&nbsp;</p><p>But that doesn’t mean I never want to go to a specifically lesbian or queer event. In fact, I want them more than ever. But I want it to be authentic, to reflect the values that are generally represented in my community. I wouldn’t go to a corporate trade show for any reason.</p><p>Why should I go just because I share my bed with another woman?</p><div tml-image="ci01c8789fa001c80a" tml-image-caption="I've never felt more gay pride." tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a3.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NDg1MjE1Mjg1ODQzMjE4.jpg" /><figcaption>I've never felt more gay pride.</figcaption></figure></div><p>So it’s official: I’m calling for an alternative. I want to see an LGBT Expo that shuns big business in favor of meaningful community support, representation of avant-garde arts and culture and queer values.&nbsp;</p><p>Will you be there?</p><p>***</p><p><em>Follow Mary Emily O’Hara on Twitter: <a href="http://twitter.com/maryemilyohara">@maryemilyohara</a></em></p>Is a LGBT Expo really for the community, or is it just a chance for creepy corporations to gaywash and reach a diversity market?http://www.xojane.com/sex/lgbt-expo
http://www.xojane.com/sex/lgbt-expoSex, Sex, Sex ... and LoveTue, 03 Mar 2015 06:12:55 -0800Mary Emily O'HaraThe One With All The Fat Jokes, or How Fat Monica on "Friends" Stuck With Me All These Years<!-- tml-version="2" --><div tml-image="ci01c86b9810012a83" tml-image-caption="Searching for my Central Perk." tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a4.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NDcwNzY2NzQ3Mzk2NzM5.jpg" /><figcaption>Searching for my Central Perk.</figcaption></figure></div><p><em>Friends</em> has a few recurring backstories — Phoebe’s shady past, Ross’s divorce — but one seems to come up again and again: Monica used to be fat in high school.</p><p>We actually get to see it in Season Two. Mr. and Mrs. Geller drop off boxes from Monica’s childhood bedroom. The friends all happen to be over when they unearth a video of Monica and Rachel prepping for prom. The tape clicks into the VCR, and there’s Monica in a fat suit and a billowy maroon dress, clutching a sandwich. </p><p>“Some girl ate Monica!” crows Joey. And the audience laughs.</p><p>I thought grown-up life would basically be a <em>Friends</em> rerun. As a kid, I clung most to that image of adulthood. '90s New York life seemed so fun and glamorous — the impossibly large apartments, the casually fashionable overalls, the Hootie &amp; the Blowfish concerts.&nbsp;</p><p>My family wasn’t hopelessly devoted to the show, so I watched syndicated episodes on the tiny, static-y TV propped on my bedroom dresser. Reruns came in a never-ending stream. A lot of nights, I fell asleep to the soothing chords of <em>Smelly Cat</em>. </p><div tml-image="ci01c86b991001c80a" tml-image-caption="An actual Smelly Cat in the wild." tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a4.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NDcwODkzNzE3Mzk1OTM0.jpg" /><figcaption>An actual Smelly Cat in the wild.</figcaption></figure></div><p>It’s embarrassing to admit, but when I look at my life now, it echoes back to these episodes. Maybe <em>Friends</em> is just a great look at mid-20s life, or maybe I drifted off to Ross’s whine so often that these ideas sunk into my subconscious. </p><p>I didn’t move to New York, but I did move to a big U.S. city. I spend way too much time in coffee shops. I have a group of friends who are here for me whenever my life’s a joke, I’m broke, my love life’s DOA. </p><p>When <em>Friends</em> hit Netflix in January, I was ready. Now I could stream episodes all day and night, until my roommate begged me to shut it off. So much of it was how I remembered. Certain scenes made me scream-laugh so hard that I was afraid the neighbors would complain. </p><p>But I’d forgotten about the relentless fat jokes. They pop up every few episodes. Skinny, beautiful, OCD Monica used to be fat — and her friends will never let her forget it. </p><p>Maybe the jokes didn’t register with me when I was younger. In high school, hating my body was the norm. But I have to wonder, as I formed my opinions on lattes and boyfriends and the merits of having a capuchin monkey as a pet, what ideas about fatness versus success crept into my head during that formative TV-watching.&nbsp;</p><p>Because when everyone taunts Monica about the girl she used to be, I begin to suspect something: If Monica was still fat, they wouldn’t be her friends. </p><p>In flashbacks, Monica exists only as a punchline. What effect did this have on me at 13, 14, 15? To see women defined only by their bodies. To know that only when you get skinny do you star in your own show. </p><p>Monica becomes real only when she loses the weight. Before that, she’s just a caricature. I was a fat kid; I am a fatter adult. What does this mean for the girls like me who never become thin? Are we relegated to side roles and stereotypes in our own lives? Of course, this isn’t true. But I think it sometimes, dark and secret: The fat girl doesn’t get to be the protagonist. </p><p>What does the opposite mean, then? To stay fat or — horror of horrors — get fatter? Does this lessen my successes — the stories I’ve told, the friends I’ve made, the life I’ve built? Sometimes I hear my friends dismiss people we knew as teenagers with, “Oh, he got fat,” and my stomach flips as I wonder what other people say about me. </p><p>That’s what the fat jokes on <em>Friends</em> feel like to me, like someone I know and trust is leaning over to whisper, “You matter less because of your body,” then expecting me to laugh. </p><p>I know the simple solution is to just stop watching. I boycotted <em>How I Met Your Mother</em> when the fat jokes got too vicious. Maybe it’s because I fell in love with <em>Friends</em> young, before I knew the possible damage.&nbsp;</p><p>But I love so much about the show, and I just don’t want to turn it off. I wish there was some edited version where I could skip over the worst of the jokes. I know <em>Friends</em> has other problems with diversity and homophobia, and I never expected it to be a perfect show. But when those Monica jokes come up, they always feel like a punch to the gut. </p><p>It’s not just <em>Friends</em> either. The “formerly fat” story line shows up often enough to be considered a trope. The heroic skinny person earns their TV life by shedding the weight.&nbsp;</p><p>A recent example: In <em>New Girl</em>, the fit and fastidious character Schmidt used to be chubby (and shlubby) in college. He briefly reunites with his college girlfriend Elizabeth, who remains heavier. But instead of the skinny girls on the show, who wear Peter Pan collars and sleek cocktail dresses, Elizabeth dresses like a slob. She doesn’t know how to present herself in social situations. The joke is that Schmidt is embarrassed by her. I could barely finish the season. </p><p>I didn’t need these reminders about how the world views women’s bodies, then or now. You never forget being a fat teenage girl. When my skinnier friends ran into certain stores at the mall, I lingered by the accessories, sliding bangles up and down my wrist and avoiding the eyes of salesgirls. I wanted to apologize for the space I took up, to confess that I knew they didn’t carry my size. </p><p>But it was worse when my mom took me to the designated plus-size stores, where I stood back as far from the door as I could in case a classmate wandered by. Walking out of the mall, I’d keep the label of the shopping bag turned towards my leg. At home, I’d cut the XXL tags from every shirt collar. </p><p>Since then, I’ve read so much about feminism and body positivity and the fat acceptance movement. I know that bodies are not inherently good or bad. My fatness is a part of me — both my history and my everyday — but it is not the only part of me.</p><p>The Monica in the prom video is maybe a size 18 or 20. In high school, I wore a 16 or 18. When I look at her, I see myself. That chubby teenage girl afraid of her own ambitions, because who could she ever be besides the fat girl? I look at photos of my teenage self now and I think I look beautiful. I wish I could reassure her that she would grow past these insecurities. </p><div tml-image="ci01c86b9800012a83" tml-image-caption="Being my best High School self." tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a3.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NDcwNzY1OTQyMTQwODk4.jpg" /><figcaption>Being my best High School self.</figcaption></figure></div><p>I’ve learned to celebrate the good things my body can do. Walking through Europe after college, dancing to Talking Heads albums in my apartment now. I try to remember that there are good days and bad days; that loving my body isn’t a one-time goal but an ongoing process. </p><p>One joke hit me particularly hard — and it’s a joke Monica makes at her own expense. She wants to go on a date with Rachel’s high school boyfriend, Chip, and she argues her case. “The fat girl inside of me really wants to go,” says Monica. “I owe her this. I never let her eat.”</p><p>A life of withholding. This is the joke. The scene ends.</p><p>I bet Fat Monica was a great friend. I bet she kept meticulously organized Trapper Keepers and got really competitive over pop quizzes. She probably spent a lot of time in the kitchen, trying out recipes for her family while she dreamed of being a New York City chef. I bet she was just as funny and intense and neurotic and loyal as the woman she grows into. I bet she just went by Monica, and I bet she was fantastic.&nbsp;</p>I hear my friends dismiss people we knew as teenagers with, “Oh, he got fat,” and my stomach flips as I wonder what other people say about me.http://www.xojane.com/issues/friends-fat-monica-and-me
http://www.xojane.com/issues/friends-fat-monica-and-meIssuesMon, 02 Mar 2015 15:00:00 -0800Megan KirbyI'm Trying Oil Pulling Long After Everyone Else Has Given It Up<!-- tml-version="2" --><div tml-image="ci01c86b58900199de" tml-image-caption="" tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a2.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NDcwNjEwMjQ5NTY2MjE4.jpg" /><figcaption></figcaption></figure></div><p>There are roughly one million outmoded, trendy things we as a people have done to ourselves in the hopes of becoming so beautiful that we make strangers spontaneously orgasm on the street. For the most part, they are hooey.&nbsp;</p><p>For example, my grandmother used to make my mom wash her hair in water they collected from their deck awning because it was “purer.” It was also rife with bird feces and probably at least one dead beetle. Still, there are always these debunked, disproved trends that some people swear by. I am going to try some of them, and see if they actually work.&nbsp;</p><p>Anyone can try something when it's a fad, but it takes a special level of commitment to try these ideas long after every other rational person has given them up as useless.&nbsp;You can trust me because I don’t believe in anything unless I see it for myself, which makes my relationship with God and the people I date pretty challenging. First up: OIL PULLING! </p><p>A cursory Interneting was unsatisfactory in giving me answers vis-a-vis the true efficacy of this passing trend. A little history: This ancient Ayurvedic tradition (for those of you who do not haunt Pinterest during the wee hours of the morning for sport) involves swishing oil in your mouth for up to 20 minutes at the start of your day in an effort to remove toxins that have built up in your body. Also it will apparently cure anything and everything from depression, to acne, to bad breath, to indigestion, to a lingering fear of the eyes of lobsters (I made up the last one).&nbsp;</p><p>People on the Internet FREAK OUT about how great it is for tooth-whitening. This I shrugged off because I am of British descent and that whole white-teeth ship has sailed. THEN I saw a claim that swayed me: Oil pulling can cure sore throats. Baloney? Probably. I texted a very smart person I know who was all, “This will make your teeth worse.” I was all, “Yes, yes, you are right,” and then I decided to do it anyway.</p><p>Because about a month ago, <em>The Perfect Storm</em> hit my mouth. That’s right, my mouth turned into a deep-sea fishing vessel upon which a doomed George Clooney was idly passing the hours until his certain demise (also featuring Mark Wahlberg). I had a terrible toothache AND a sore throat that I couldn’t shake. Because we exist in a country where health care is now (relatively speaking) more accessible than ever before, I had the option of going to both the dentist and the doctor. But, after leaving my dental appointment with an invoice hefty enough to give serious consideration to the merits of selling my organs, I decided to go the all-natural route when it came to my throat.</p><p>This was probably smarter, anyway. At least that's what I told myself. Like many kids reared in the 1980s and 1990s, my parents and pediatrician were waaaaay too antibiotic happy. Let the record show: ANTIBIOTICS ARE SO IMPORTANT. YOU KNOW, LIKE HOW VACCINES ARE IMPORTANT. But I don’t think antibiotics should be taken when your kid, you know, sighs at a louder-than-normal volume or has a particularly vivid chartreuse-colored snot creeping down his or her philtrum. Because those are both normal kid things that happen. </p><p>So here I am at 31 toughing it out, and it is miserable. I’m chugging tea, I’m gnawing on neem leaves, I’m ordering bucket loads of goldenseal, a purchase which has permanently skewed my Amazon algorithm, making me look like a stoner who has a very important job interview coming up. While these remedies all provided temporary comfort, the only true cure was going to be time. You know, UNLESS I WENT AND GOT THE TREATMENT I CLEARLY NEEDED FOR WHAT WAS, NOW I REALIZE, A SEVERE STREP THROAT. SEVERE. </p><p>One morning, during the worst of it, I stood hunched over my sink considering my pallid, homely morning-time visage. My throat was aflame. The demons suckling at my tooth pausing to cackle. I was at the end of my proverbial rope-type apparatus. If ever there was a time to oil pull for health and beauty, this was it. </p><p>I decided to try this noise out for a month and see what, if any, benefits came my way. If I happened to, over the span of three weeks, get pearly whites, a perfectly regulated gut, and skin worthy of theft for human-coat-making projects? Awesome. If it didn’t, I would have spent a lot of time with shit in my mouth for no reason (which, coincidentally, is also what she said).&nbsp;</p><p>Day one, I began by spooning the required tablespoon of coconut oil into my mouth and immediately (ACCIDENTALLY) swallowed it. Because, I am the best.&nbsp;</p><p>Thus far, the experiment had proven itself to be pretty terrible, though I must admit, my sore throat did disappear. Was it gone because it has now been several weeks since I first contracted it? Or was it gone because I decided to start gargling overpriced oils? Only the God I don’t believe in totally and basic science knows for sure.</p><p>The biggest problem with oil pulling that I’d read about so far was to swish an oil (of your choosing—&nbsp;I’m going with coconut because I live in Brooklyn) in your mouth for 20 minutes without throwing up. Many intrepid beauty bloggers gagged at the mere thought of all that fat approaching their respective gullets.&nbsp;</p><p><em>My</em> main concern is that I would immediately swallow it because I am a gluttonous animal who cannot be tamed. Genitals and tongues aside, if something is in my mouth, it is because I am eating it. </p><p>I was both right and wrong. I had no problem getting the recommended tablespoon of the stuff into my mouth, but since the coconut oil was in a semi (mostly) solid state in its jar, and I was vigorously sending messages to my throat begging it not to swallow, my mouth felt ... confused as to its plan of action. I chomped around aimlessly until everything was liquidy and I felt, you know, fine. Weird, but fine. Mainly, I wondered, what I should do to pass the time while I swished,&nbsp;so I put on an old episode of <em>Archer</em>&nbsp;and read up on what other people have reported back on the joys of oil pulling.</p><p>“If you find that your jaw or mouth is tired after oil pulling, you are probably pulling too rigorously,” said one helpful writer. “At least, that’s what I’ve found! Try relaxing a little, lol!”&nbsp;</p><p>I rolled my eyes. People are idiots, I thought, as a stream of tropical-smelling ooze trickled down the corner of my mouth and onto my confused cat’s head. </p><p>Maybe I’m a little orally fixated, but I didn’t mind the process. Once I became fairly confident that I wasn’t going to re-eat my supposed toxins accidentally, the whole deal was kind of fun. I had visions of me going through my day with my breath transformed from its normal mouth-smell into something else. Kissing the dude I kiss, he’d pull away only to say, “Whoa. Your mouth tastes all soft and sweet, like a Sandals resort bathroom air-freshening canister.” This arousing sentiment uttered, we’d make out as we had never made out before. </p><p>But, once I spat the oil out (in the trash, thank you very much&nbsp;—&nbsp;I learned my lesson with drains and oils many moons ago, thank you thick-cut bacon and my own idiocy) I kind of went to town, brushing my teeth and rinsing out my mouth, you know, BECAUSE IT TASTED AND FELT LIKE IT WAS COATED WITH OIL. My mouth did feel extra clean&nbsp;—&nbsp;probably because it was. Because I’d just spent so much time trying&nbsp;to get the oil out? Or maybe it was oil-pulling fairies. Who’s to say, really? </p><p>I wasn't always so successful. When my roommate was home and awake when I was due to pull, I did not want to do it around her. I knew exactly what her face would do if I said, “Hey listen, I’m going to be gargling oil for like, the better part of half an hour to write about it? So like, I won’t be able to talk?” And, frankly, the sight of it was something I could live without.&nbsp;</p><p>So I ate breakfast, and scuttled out the door to my nannying gig. Once I had a seven-month-old on my hip whose favorite hobbies include sucking on my chin and eating his own feet, I felt like I was in a place free from judgment. I began the pulling and at first, everything was fine. Great, in fact! My young charge was delighted by the sounds of me swishing oil and I was mentally guffawing at the notion of starting a fake mommy blog called <em>Pullin’ on The Go: My Paleo LifeSTYLE</em>.</p><p>This is when the post-nasal drip began. Now, I may not have gagged at a mouthful of oil, but the snot leaking down the back of my throat WHILE I had a mouthful of oil was almost more than I could properly handle. I mildly panicked&nbsp;—&nbsp;do I swallow the&nbsp;snot and get a little oil in there too? Do I spit the whole mess out? Or do I force the snot into my mouth and blend the mucus in with the other fluids, like a horrible, horrible living Vitamix? I opted for the grossest option. </p><p>No amount of tooth-whitening, no amount of alleged health benefits is worth gargling your own snot for 20 minutes. In the end, I continued oil pulling and got a gum infection. So that was awesome. That said, one of my dude friends did say my teeth looked really white apropos of nothing. I was wearing red lipstick though, and dudes are easily fooled by such tricks.&nbsp;</p><p>I kept it up for another week because I take journalism seriously. My teeth stayed the same shade of aged piano-key yellow and I gained three pounds. Verdict: Set oil pulling on fire.&nbsp;</p>Anyone can try something when it's a fad, but it takes a special level of commitment to try something long after the trend is over.http://www.xojane.com/healthy/oil-pulling-is-over
http://www.xojane.com/healthy/oil-pulling-is-overHealthyMon, 02 Mar 2015 14:00:00 -0800RebeccaIt Took Me Three Years to Stop Seeing My Niece as Competition<!-- tml-version="2" --><p>“You’ve never been to see Donna’s chickens?” my mother asked from the driver’s seat of the family Prius.&nbsp;</p><p>“Nope,” I croaked. Stuffed between my pregnant sister and her three-year-old in the back, I could barely breathe let alone carry on a conversation. My sister and I visited our parents in California at least twice a year, and as the younger of two adult children, I normally presided over the family agenda. We’d go to the beach, taste wine, or leisurely shop the farmer’s market. But the pecking order had recently changed, and this outing reeked of a grandchild.</p><p> “<em>Edie’s</em> been to see the chickens.” She glanced into the rearview mirror at my first and only niece, who sat quietly fiddling with a plastic fairy in her car seat.&nbsp;</p><p>At that point, Edie and I hadn’t spent much time together. I lived blissfully childfree and thousands of miles away in New York City. I’d never babysat (well, not effectively anyway) and wasn’t quite sure what to make of such a tiny person or her casual displays of affection. She was always giving hugs, offering gifts of little or no monetary value, and saying thing like, “I love you, Aunt Sarah.”</p><p> ***</p><p> “I hate this baby,” my sister declared just a few days after my parents brought me home from the hospital. She was only three at the time and couldn't possibly fathom what a pill I’d turn out to be. Take my four-year bout of insomnia that began around age six. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and make a beeline for my parents’ bedroom. They found a quick fix to deflect the problem: a second twin bed in my sister’s room. By the time I went back to sleeping in my own room, she was already in junior high.</p><p>Still on rocky terrain emotionally, I wasn’t ready for the “important talk” my mother suggested we have.</p><p> “What is it,” I asked.</p><p>Her eyes twinkled.</p><p> “How would you feel about having a baby brother or sister?”</p><p>She must have picked up on my disappointment because she quickly corrected herself.</p><p> “I’m just kidding. Your dad and I are thinking of moving to California.”</p><p>Tears welled up in my eyes. We’d lived in Illinois for my entire life. All of our friends and family were there. I cried for at least an hour, and for some reason, my parents chose not to move until almost a decade later when I went to college, a plan they basically announced while throwing me out of a moving van in front of my new dorm room.</p><p> “Think how fun it will be to come visit,” my mother offered.</p><p> ***</p><p> In another 10 years, my parents were over us entirely. After a few days of hosting the larger, hungrier versions of the children they remember, my mother and father stopped trying to entertain us. Since it takes my family hours to evaluate even the simplest of propositions, visiting a backyard chicken coop wouldn’t normally pass muster. For one, it’s not “on the way” to anywhere in particular. </p><p> “We don’t want to be stuck in the car all day,” they’d say to avoid a 15-minute drive to pick up milk. My father would go about his daily business: black coffee and cereal doused in orange juice or, lacking that, water. By definition, a destination is always on the way, since it marks the end point of a given route. But try telling that to my family and you’re likely to argue over whether to take two cars, Highway 68, or even worse, the dreaded “mileage-cost-to-enjoyment” ratio of the proposed activity.</p><p>The day we went to see the chickens, I knew something was amiss. My mother announced we’d be leaving in 30 minutes, which set off a frenzy of gathering: sunscreens, baby books, organic gluten-free trail mix — you name it, we don’t want to go without. Whether to bring a coat or a sweater is another major source of controversy, the right answer rooted in a myriad of complexities: the altitude of the destination, proximity to the ocean, and tilt of the earth’s axis in relation to the sun. If we plan to be there past dinner, it's best to just bring both.</p><p>By the time we’re able to fully load into a car, at least one person has to run back into the house to use the bathroom. At that point, I would have normally given up due to a missing sun-hat fiasco — or when I found out there wasn’t enough room in the cooler for my hastily prepared turkey sandwich. But for fear of being forced out by an interloper, I had no choice but to edge my way onto a 12-inch hump of leather upholstery. </p><p>***</p><p> “Alright chickadees, we’re here,” my mother said, as we pulled into a long and winding driveway. Her friend, Donna, greeted us at the sliding glass door.</p><p>“Why Edie, you’ve gotten so big,” she said kindly before leading us toward a fenced-in enclosure at the back of the house. A large but narrow coop made up of a roosting area and enclosed run lined the back fence. Next to it sat what appeared to be a miniature red barn with a chicken-size set of double doors. An older man with thick glasses (whom I knew as half of “Donna and Bill”) opened the doors to reveal a nest and a three freshly laid brown eggs. I assume he did this for Edie’s benefit, but I rushed up to get a better look anyway.</p><p>“Are those the eggs?”</p><p>I guess he thought it was a rhetorical question. Without pause, he unlatched the coop, and a dozen chickens flocked out into the yard.</p><p> “Aunt Sarah, come chase the chickens with me!” cried my little niece.</p><p> I pretended to only be indulging the request of a child and shrugged my shoulders at the other adults. Secretly, I’d waited my whole life for such an invitation. A much more formidable opponent than a three-foot galloping toddler in an all-purple outfit and fuchsia sunglasses, I stood erect at an impressive five-foot-five (okay, four-and-three-quarters, but that didn’t stop me from spooking those birds!). About 15 minutes into the whizzing feathers and pecking of beaks, I started to wonder how this henhouse functioned.</p><p> “Is there a rooster?” I asked its owner, Bill.</p><p> “Nah,” he said. “The neighbors wouldn’t much care for the noise.”</p><p><em> Hmm</em>, I wondered, attempting to mentally parse the physics of chicken sex. In the better part of 30 years, I’d learned that my mother was the best person to field questions about reproduction. On a family trip to Florence, I’d asked her why the penises on all of the statues were so small. Since the women were also oddly portrayed as round and cherub-faced with dainty features, I thought maybe it was an evolutionary thing.</p><div tml-image="ci01c873a8d0019512" tml-image-caption="Pondering chicken sex." tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a4.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NDc5NzU3MTg3NzE3NTk4.jpg" /><figcaption>Pondering chicken sex.</figcaption></figure></div><p> “This might be a stupid question,” I asked. “But how do the chickens lay eggs with no male?” My mother’s reaction was one I’d seen many times before — usually after she went to a good deal of trouble to give me important instructions on how not to set the house on fire. I respond with, “Got it. What were we talking about again?” She then makes a frustrated horse-like exhalation whereby enough air escapes her mouth to dishevel her pretty salt-and-pepper-colored bangs. The overall effect is the look of someone whose life I’ve ruined solely by existing.</p><p> “They’re unfertilized, ding-dong.”</p><p> ***</p><p> A few months later, it occurred to me that perhaps I’d been the one to drive my parents insane. We’d all made the annual pilgrimage back to Illinois for a family reunion — and to spend time with Edie’s new little sister, Annabelle, who introduced herself by projectile-vomiting down the back of my shirt. Since my baby-handling skills were no better than Edie’s, we sat at a plastic table in the corner and colored together quietly.</p><p>One evening, after helping her into a pair of pink pajamas and reading an hour or so worth of children’s stories, she finally appeared ready for bed. I kissed her on the cheek, closed the door, and tiptoed into the bathroom for a hot shower. I was just beginning to relax when I heard a singsong voice through the drizzle.</p><p> “Aunt Sa-rah!”</p><p> A tiny blonde head popped in through the shower curtain.</p><p> “Yes, dear,” I sighed.</p><p> I’d finally broken through to the other side.</p>I lived blissfully childfree and thousands of miles away in New York City, and wasn’t quite sure what to make of such a tiny person or her casual displays of affection.http://www.xojane.com/family/jealous-of-baby-niece
http://www.xojane.com/family/jealous-of-baby-nieceFamily DramaMon, 02 Mar 2015 13:00:00 -0800Sarah KasbeerI Stopped Wearing a Bra For A Year To Prove a Feminist Point<!-- tml-version="2" --><div tml-image="ci01c8763d6001efe2" tml-image-caption="" tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a3.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NDgyNTk0ODE4OTQ0OTk0.jpg" /><figcaption></figcaption></figure></div><p>As a woman, my boobs are probably the one thing on my body I’m most proud of. I may be a perpetual dieter who can’t seem to find the cure-all for my acne-prone skin, but my boobs? They’re always on point. They are the one thing on my body I don’t have to work for, and by societal standards, they’re considered pretty attractive. Lucky me.</p><p>My decision to go bra-less wasn’t about catching the eyes of more men (although that kind of happened). It wasn’t to be cool. I made the decision to fold up my Victoria’s Secret lovelies, the two-cups-bigger push-ups and satiny soft demi’s, the T-shirt bras and trusty cotton staples, because of a comment an 18-year-old boy made while sitting at a table of young women in my college cafeteria. </p><p>He said one of our friends had “gross, saggy boobs.” By my take, she had the <em>best</em> boobs out of any of us, a great shape in general. But because she liked her bras without padding, suddenly they were gross. And <em>saggy</em>, of all things. The girl wasn’t even 21.</p><p>“Bras serve no actual purpose,” I snapped at him. The rest of the women glared at him, like a pack of angry dogs looking at a cat that has tripped off a ledge and fallen in the yard. “They lift up and squish together our tits just so that men will like them more.”&nbsp;</p><p>My closest friend at school urged me to do it. “For all of us,” she had scoffed, but I felt it was my calling, so I did. My time without a bra started that fall, and ended roughly a year later, after I left school to take a job refurbishing cable boxes in a warehouse back in Dallas. </p><div tml-image="ci01c8762c20019512" tml-image-caption="Thus began my love affair with oversized sweaters." tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a1.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NDgyNTIwNzMwNzA4NjEx.jpg" /><figcaption>Thus began my love affair with oversized sweaters.</figcaption></figure></div><p>The first few times I stepped out without support, I felt vindicated. I almost hoped someone would stop me to ask: “Are you wearing a bra?” just so I could exclaim, “Hell no! And neither should you, my friend.” Of course no one did, but I’m sure they were thinking it.</p><p>I started to notice the issue when it came to fashion. My favorite form-fitting V-necks and button downs were all but un-wearable. They made me look like the stereotype of a really old woman with boobs down to her knees. My “curvy” shape all but disappeared, and there was serious unwanted cleavage showing through the gap in the buttons of my shirts. Tank tops were out of the question.&nbsp;</p><p>Much of my wardrobe consisted of heavier fabrics and dresses, shirts with built-in bras, and sweatshirts. Over time however, I came to embrace these changes. I felt free, even when the skin under my boobs was a little sweaty at the end of the day. </p><p>Just because I worked in a physical environment, that didn’t stop me from clocking in without a bra, at least not at first. However, I didn’t realize the effect my bralessness had on my co-workers until my sister, whom I worked with, brought it up to me.</p><p>“It’s like everybody in here is staring at your boobs,” she said, sounding more than disturbed. Some people seemed to think I just wanted attention by having my boobs flopping everywhere, even when I actually tried to wear clothes that were both comfortable and conservative. </p><p>Men hit on me left and right, their eyes all darting from my face to my chest seemingly without their control. I kept my arms crossed over my chest when talking to a few in particular, which didn’t seem to help matters. I started wearing an ugly little jacket every day just to keep things in check.</p><div tml-image="ci01c87632d001c80a" tml-image-caption="Prints distract wandering eyes!" tml-render-layout="inline"><figure><img src="http://a4.files.xojane.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,q_80,w_620/MTI4NDgyNTQ5NzIxNzc4MTg2.jpg" /><figcaption>Prints distract wandering eyes!</figcaption></figure></div><p>A guy friend of mine, who is now my boyfriend, joked, “Who knew how many guys were sitting in the break room staring at you out of the corner of their eyes?” The idea both disgusted and terrified me. The last thing I wanted was to become the object of some weird guy’s private lust.&nbsp;</p><p>Then there were the rumors. By this point, it was “pretty obvious” to everyone in the building that my guy friend and I had something going on, and when people weren’t congratulating him on the score, they were suggesting that he only wanted me because I was obviously a slut. No grown woman would walk around like that and not want men to notice her.&nbsp;</p><p>I had become something of a joke. Men and women both giggled about how they’d caught a glimpse of some side boob when I set something up on a shelf, or how my nipples got hard when the break room was cold. I put all the “sticks and stones” advice I’d ever learned to good use, and let them talk. I had a higher purpose, right?</p><p>As women, we wear bras for several reasons, many of which are probably unconscious. They are an exciting symbol of womanhood (remember your first training bra?). They’re soft and feminine. Frankly, they’re pretty. And they make us feel pretty. Not to mention they enhance our assets, regardless of size.</p><p>Sometimes we wear them for the illusion, or sometimes we literally wear them for the support. </p><p>I stopped wearing a bra to prove a feminist point. And in the end, I my experience at the workplace did: Unfortunately, we still live in a world where women like me need a bra to protect ourselves from harassment and sexism.</p>Some people seemed to think I just wanted attention by having my boobs flopping everywhere, even when I actually tried to wear clothes that were both comfortable and conservative.http://www.xojane.com/clothes/clothes-didnt-wear-a-bra-for-a-year
http://www.xojane.com/clothes/clothes-didnt-wear-a-bra-for-a-yearClothesMon, 02 Mar 2015 12:00:00 -0800Mateeka Quinn